


For Great Justice!

by K_dAzrael



Series: Femme!Jokester [4]
Category: Batman (comicverse), DCU - Comicverse, DCU Earth 3
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Genderswitch, Het, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, so you're asking for my <i>help</i>? You know, you really should have made that part clear." Owlman has a problem... one that requires the assistance of a certain wise-cracking clown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's genderswitch – the Jokester is female. The prequel to this story is my fic 'Urizen'
> 
> Earth 3 is a canon alternate universe within the DC comics multiverse. In it live the moral opposites of the characters on 'our' Earth. Bruce Wayne is an evil crime lord called Owlman and his clown-faced arch-nemesis is a comedian turned vigilante called The Jokester. The JLA's counterparts are the all-powerful cartel The Crime Society of Amerika (Owlman, Ultraman, Superwoman, Johnny Quick, Power Ring). The characters appear in 'Countdown to Final Crisis' (vol 2) and 'Countdown: the Search For Ray Palmer, Crime Society'. A similar set up in pre-Crisis DC continuity is 'JLA Earth 2'.
> 
> For more on any of this check out the scans and stuff at [Funhouse of Evil](http://community.livejournal.com/funhouseofevil)

She knows he must mean business because he only maims one person on the way in.

The Jokester is sitting at a booth at _The Laff Inn_ stirring a ginger ale and waiting for the second act, or her weapons expert – whoever shows up first – when she hears a series of gasps and one hoarse scream.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea for that guy in the storybook as Owlman strides into view.

"Ah, Owlsie, to what do I owe the pleasure? I didn't take you for a fan of the performing arts..."

"Shut up," he barks in his customary style of greeting, sliding into the booth opposite her and hulking there, all muscle and scowl. "Kyle. Selden Kyle. Mean anything to you?"

She twists her mouth. "About yea high... dark and handsome... eye for the ladies and a thing for cats? Nice guy when he keeps it in his leather pants. Why do you ask, pray tell oh bird of prey?"

"Seems your little gentleman thief pal has switched allegiances."

"You mean he's embraced the dark and spandex-wearing side?"

"He stole something from me. A prototype weapon... something dangerous."

"Well Owlsie-pie if you _will_ leave these things lying around..."

He slams his fist down on the table and a glass ashtray goes skittering off and smashes on the floor. She raises an eyebrow at him and gives him the wearily tolerant look that mothers reserve for recalcitrant toddlers. "This isn't a laughing matter, clown! This thing uses a uranium power source – if it's used, or damaged..."

"... Gotham becomes a radioactive crater – I get the picture. Holy carcinogenic crisis, Owlman!"

"Don't you care? I thought you loved these people. Aren't you their self-appointed 'saviour'?"

She feigns nonchalance, slurping her drink. "I never made that claim. And frankly, I'd trust Catman with something like before I'd trust you."

"I'm telling you he isn't your little vigilante pal anymore, stealing from me for kicks - he's changed. This was made to order, understand?"

"You're saying he's uh, a 'cat's paw'? For who?"

"That I don't know yet. That's why I need to find him - fast. Before he delivers the merchandise."

"Well I say good luck to ya tweets," she raises her glass to him in a mock-toast, then furrows her brows in a puzzled expression when he continues to sit there, immobile. "Hello? Uh, this is the part where you storm off and crack some heads..."

Owlman pauses before speaking, seeming to consider his words carefully: "you know the freak better than I do. You know where he goes, who his contacts are."

"Oh, so you're asking for my _help_? You know, you really should have made that part clear."

Owlman cracks his knuckles in a way that should appear threatening but comes out more like a nervous tic. "I'm saying... you can tag along. But don't get in my way – this is my show, got it?"

"Aww, Owlsie, I always knew the magical day would come when you'd finally ask me to be your 'frienemy'," the Jokester wipes an imaginary tear away from the corner of her eye. "Oh gee, I'm getting all choked up here..."

Owlman gives one of his broad repertoire of pissed-off grunts and slides back out of the seat, stalking off towards the exit with a flurry of his cape.

The Jokester smiles to herself and shakes her head, then throws down money in payment for the drink (adding a few hundreds to cover the doorman's medical bills) and follows him out with a skip in her step.

"To the owlmobile - away!"

*~*~*

"Whee!" the Jokester enthuses as her forehead thumps the dashboard of Owlman's silver-painted all-terrain vehicle for the third time in as many minutes as it careens around a corner and skids to a halt. "I take back everything I said about you being no fun. You sure know how to break the rules of the road."

Owlman punches some buttons on the console, apparently scanning their surroundings before turning back to face her. "Where's the place?"

The Jokester glances down the street to a particular buzzing neon sign with an arrow pointing down a flight of steps to a basement bar, then back towards Owlman, frowning critically at him. "This one requires a light touch, y'know? More charming and bribing – and less murdering of patrons, okie-dokie? So like, no offense big guy, but this isn't going to work if you stomp in dressed like that. At the very least I'll lose my membership of the Rogues Gallery Club if I try to sign _you_ in as a _bona fide_ guest..."

"Your point, clown?"

"Look... look. How about you flap back to your nest and get changed into something less...   
supervillain-y? Listen in to Boss Gordon's chatter – you've got his operations bugged, right? I'll handle enquiries here and get back to you when I've found something we can work with."

Owlman reaches for his utility belt produces a communicator. "Use this."

"It's also a GPS tracker I suppose?"

He presses another button to raise the passenger door. "Naturally."

As the Jokester swivels the lower half of her body to put a booted foot out onto the pavement, she rolls her eyes at him. "Catch ya later, Captain Paranoia."

Owlman merely grunts again in response.

The Jokester stands with one hand on her hip, watching as the vehicle pulls away and rapidly accelerates. _What, no parting shot? He must really have his panties in a bunch over this_, she thinks, turning the collar of her green frock coat up against the rain. _Now to play my favourite game – what's the Owlman hiding?_

*~*~*

_"Avenue X and Cicero. You'll find Randy Johnson there."_

Before leaving his current surveillance headquarters, Owlman changes into his incognito clothes – a dark grey wool suit with a white button-down shirt, neither too shabby nor too showy. He glances at himself in the mirror, feeling uncomfortable out of his real skin – he has shown the Jokester his bared face before, but he still expects an evening of snide comments.

He takes only a few necessary items with him on the mission: into the suit pockets he puts cash; a cell phone; a variety of fake IDs; the keys to an unobtrusive car; a strip of opaque cloth and a coiled-up length of electrical wire. Into ankle holsters he slips a hunting knife of his own design and a small calibre pistol.

In a dilapidated, malodorous movie theatre, Owlman slides into a seat next to the Jokester – who has at some point changed into a trench coat and trilby, her hair tucked up beneath the brim of the hat. She is eating from a tub of popcorn, tossing the pieces up into the air and opening her mouth to catch them, her eyes fixed on the screen and her white-caked face given artificial colour by being bathed in its flesh-toned glow.

_'Oh baby, mmm, yes, you like that...'_

"Jesus," Owlman reflexively screens his eyes from the flickering images. "What the fuck is this?"

"_Backdoor Dogpile III_, starring the one and only Randy 'twelve-inch' Johnson. I haven't seen one or two, but I seem to be following the plot okay so far. Silly girl, you can't fit two of those in th– well, will ya look at that! I guess you learn something new every day..."

"And why are we here?"

"Because _She-Male Gang-Bang_ was all sold out. Also because I have reason to believe our target is in the club across the street... _The Grin and Bare It_."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, not yet. But I have it on good authority that it's the place our alley cat friend likes to get his wine, women and song on a Saturday night. He's got some kind of VIP membership card. I had an associate hack into the club's computer network - Kyle swiped in a half hour ago."

Owlman sits back, drumming his leather-gloved fingers on the back of a chair and trying not to imagine what it would look like if he ran a blacklight over the room. "So, what does it mean? That the transaction is complete... or that he's just foolhardy enough to celebrate in anticipation of the handover?"

"He's cocky alright – it wouldn't surprise me if he decided to count his kittens before they hatch. I guess we'll just have to grab ahold of his flea collar and find out."

An angry moviegoer with a comb-over and a cheap rain mac in the next row turns awkwardly in his seat to glare at them. "If you two are trying to hook up can you get the fuck out of here? Some of us are trying to watch the film!"

Owlman's instant reaction is to leap up, baring his teeth and pulling back his fist as he hulks over the objector. "FILTH!" he spits, grabbing a handful of polyester and dragging the other man half way over the seats backwards as his victim whimpers and tries ineffectually to break free, kicking his feet and twisting.

"No, no, please I'm sorry, let me go, please!"

"You have _no idea_ who you're messing with you sick, pathetic little–"

The Jokester sighs wearily and stands up, brushing the popcorn off herself before placing a staying hand on Owlman's elbow. "Easy tiger, let it go. We've got work to do."

As the they step out into the trash-strewn alley she smiles and takes in a deep, fortifying breath. "Ah, call me sentimental, but I like a good porno – there's always a happy ending."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Selden Kyle' is of course a genderswitched version of Selina Kyle, aka the thief and temptress Catwoman. Confusingly, there's already a DC villain called Catman - Thomas Blake, who appears in the Secret Six. He wasn't sleazy enough for my purposes though.
> 
> 'The Grin and Bare It' is the name of the strip club in the Azzarello 'Joker' GN. I have to admit, that little detail made me smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold, true believers, the wonder that is stripper!femme!Jokester. It's very important to the plot, I assure you, and not at all just shameless fanservice. Uh, fanart plz?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I start writing this in the present tense? The present tense is a giant pain in the ass.

The club is not as seedy as its insalubrious location led Owlman to expect – certainly, he thinks as he lowers himself down onto a banquette, it's several steps up from the porno theatre.

Only about half the tables have anyone sitting at them. It's only ten-thirty and most of the clientele probably won't drift along from the surrounding bars until nearer midnight, when the booze really kicks in and makes them realise how pathetic, lonely and sexually frustrated they are.

A waitress takes his drink order – he asks for a double bourbon, which sits untouched before him, the ice shifting in the glass as he waits for his temporary sidekick to reappear. He pretends to be staring at the dancer currently working the stage while really looking beyond her to keep an eye on their mark: Selden Kyle, resplendent in a black tuxedo of a decidedly old-fashioned cut and a pin-tucked white shirt, the bow tie loosened and rakishly draped around his neck, his dark hair pomaded and combed in a side parting like he thinks he's a heartthrob from the golden age of cinema. He sits in a booth which is plushly upholstered in carmine velvet, stroking his pencil mustache as no less than three dancers fawn upon him. The clear favourite is a sleek and appropriately feline-looking east asian girl in a green diamonte-studded bikini set who perches on the arm of his chair, whispering something in his ear as he smirks and sips from a champagne flute.

A dancer in a halter-neck top and a denim micro-miniskirt approaches Owlman's table. Her platinum dye-job is fresh, but her liquid eyeliner is flaking off. The combination of brown lip pencil and sticky pink gloss is probably supposed to make her lips appear full and alluring. He can see the scars from her boob-job when she lifts her arm to touch his shoulder.

"Sorry," he tells her, "I'm waiting for a particular girl."

"Oh lucky her..." the woman croons, leaning close enough that a few broken strands of hair brush against his ear. "Sure I can't tempt you?"

_You're tempting me to toss you through the plate glass_, he thinks, stiffening at the contact. Instead he approximates a smile by contracting his facial muscles and gives a slight shake of his head and the woman moves on. In the corner, Kyle rises to is feet, led by the wrist by the green-bikini girl towards the curtained-off area reserved for private shows as the other two women follow in laughing attendance.

When the clown finally appears he almost doesn't recognise her, but it's the newborn foal gait of someone unaccustomed to platform heels that gives it away. As usual, she thinks she's funny: it's a 'naughty nurse' outfit, topped off with a bobbed auburn wig and a surgical mask. The white and pink-trimmed minidress is longer on her than it probably is on the taller – and fuller-figured – dancer it was designed for, but it's still only hitting mid-thigh level, and there's a two-inch gap between the hem and the lace tops of the opaque white stockings. His gut reaction is that it's _wrong_, the Jokester pretending to be a woman. Not that he thinks of her as a male, exactly... but she's no more like these girls than he's like–

... The point is, she's not a _civilian_.

"Oh, you poor sick man," she says, rolling her large sad-Pagliacci eyes over the top of the mask as she drops down next to him on the banquette. "Pity I'm not a psychiatric nurse."

"Shut up."

"So, what's our playboy pal up to?"

"In the back room getting a private dance."

"Which I suppose means we have to keep up the act and follow him?"

"Mmph."

"Yeah, don't sound too eager. You know, apparently people will pay good money for this," she gestures to herself and smoothes down the skirt. "Some nice men having a bachelor party offered me twenty bucks to dance for them."

"Twenty, huh? You're cheap at twice the price."

"Was that an attempted _joke_, Owlsie? Well geez, don't quit your day job."

He crosses his arms over his chest and gives her an appraising look. "Likewise."

"Save the catty remarks for Kyle."

They walk to the darkened back room; the clown has a hand on his elbow, intermittently gripping it to keep her balance. She steers him towards an area between a pillar and the wall, from where they will have a good vantage point but be largely shielded from the gaze of the bouncers and other customers.

When he lowers himself into the chair he can feel the bassline of the music pulsing through the wall at his back. The Jokester's knees appear either side of his own; he looks up and sees her lick her lips, the protrusion of her tongue distending the cotton of the mask. Her shrewd gaze flickers around the room, resting briefly upon Kyle, who lounges among his hired girls wearing a self-satisfied smirk; then alighting on the other dancers in turn as she studies their movements with her head cocked to one side like a quick mimic – a bird, perhaps.

"You're supposed to dance," he tells her.

Her eyes flash and narrow with amusement. "Just keep your eyes on the prize, Owlsie."

Owlman does, of course: he has no desire to witness her clumsy gyrations. As he watches Kyle slipping a twenty in the feline girl's garter-belt, he feels his lip curl in disgust. In the periphery of his vision the flashes of white prove distracting, as does the crinkling of pvc and the way he can feel her body heat radiating through his clothes like a physical touch, just from the proximity. Then something else begins to bother him: she smells wrong – the outfit is saturated in its real owner's perfume, something with aggressive synthetic vanilla notes which makes him faintly nauseous. Beneath it he can still barely catch the familiar scent of _her_ \- mica and sweat.

The priorities shift when the bouncers glance his way. He focuses his gaze on the clown's hands – make-up stained and with machine oil ingrained under the long, glassy nails – as they slide downwards, unfixing the series of white plastic buttons from their moorings.

He keeps watching Kyle from the corner of his eye – a blonde flicks back her hair against his chest as she shimmies backwards between his widespread knees in only a thong and sky-scraper heels, her hands covering her nipples as tanned flesh bulges out on either side.

The clown lets out a raspy giggle against his ear as she almost loses her balance, tipping forwards so her sharp elbow nudges his pectoral; he stiffens, resisting the urge to flinch at the contact. She pulls the fabric of the front of the dress apart, holding it in such a way that no-one in the room behind her will be able to see what is beneath.

He finds himself faintly surprised that she is not wearing a bra (maybe she never does?). Her skin is pale, even where the white foundation she wears on her face and neck doesn't reach. Her small, pebbly nipples are wine-coloured and he realises that this is not their natural colour, but that they are messily smeared with lipstick just like her scars.

_Speaking of scars..._ he finds his gaze drawn to a strange pattern on her sternum that looks like Arabic letters.

– Yes, he knows where she got _them_. He remembers one malfunctioning wing of his cape and a spiraling tumble down through a skylight. Her laughing in his ear and hanging onto his neck with sheer tenacity and ragged fingernails. The night shattering musically around them and the impact of meeting the ground reverberating through his kneecaps. Then her sucking the glass from the tender flesh of her inner forearm; spitting the fragments to the floor where they glittered like diamonds on the black velvet of a jeweler's display case. Then she looked down at the torn and blood-sodden purple silk to pick the shards from her chest with an exaggerated fastidiousness, one raised eyebrow and a glib remark –

Now he wants to run his bottom teeth along the curve of the underside of her breast (which is so small he could smother it with one hand), to feel the bumps of scar tissue with the very tip of his tongue. He wants to grasp her bird-bone fragile wrists and squeeze, maneouvre her against –

... but no, she would laugh.

He would have lost control.

Kyle is moving, batting the dancer aside with an arrogant sweep of his arm as he rises and reaches into an inner pocket for his cell phone.

He gives a significant glance and a familiar nod to the man standing by the fire exit, who pushes the bar and lets him step out into the alley.

"Kyle just stepped out the back door," he murmurs.

"Well, then," she replies meditatively, "I guess it's time to get you tossed out there with him."

Before he has time to reply her arm jerks back, then there is a sharp, stinging sensation all across the side of his face and he is deaf in one ear. On reflex, he snarls and grabs her arms – but instead of pulling away in terror she throws herself down onto his lap, twisting and jerking in a mock-struggle, as if he's keeping her there.

"GET OFF ME YOU PERVERT!" she screeches in a soap opera actress' overdone tone of scandalized outrage, before shoving his chest and rolling backwards off his lap and onto the floor.

The doormen are on him in an instant, looking at him like he's the lowest scum this side of Gotham harbor and telling him this is a classy establishment and they don't appreciate his kind coming in here and manhandling the girls. As they shove him towards the back door he quashes the urge to retaliate, storing his anger for use at a later date.

(He's pretty sure 'The Grin and Bare It' is currently behind in its protection payments.)

Behind him he can hear the clown laughing and the sound of a different female voice observing: "hey, that's not Nurse Crystal!"

*~*~*

"What the f– AAAAAaaaAAARGH!" the snap which precedes the scream is one of the oh-so-fragile proximal phalanges; the sharp crack following it is the sound of Kyle's skull impacting against the wall.

"Did you really think you could steal from _me_?" Owlman hisses, keeping the other man's face mashed up against the brickwork so Kyle can't turn his head to see his assailant. "Funny, I always thought the clown was the suicidal one. Tell me, Catman, are you unbelievably cocky, or just a moron?"

"Fuck you, you sadistic bastard. I'm not telling you any–ARGH!"

"Tell me who you're working for or I'll pound your pretty-boy face into ground beef."

'I don't know... I don't– ARGH!"

A piercing whistle turns Owlman's head and draws his gaze to the end of the alley. There stands the clown, her pinstipe trousers on under the nurse mini-dress and the trench coat hastily thrown about her shoulders, the trilby pulled low and at an angle which casts a diagonal shadow across her face. Around an index finger she twirls a pair of handcuffs.

"What are you, an amateur? If you want him to _remember_ things, don't start with the head. Here, I stole these from one 'Officer Candy' as I made my daring escape," she tosses him the cuffs with an underarm lob. "I know, I'm the best sidekick ever... hey, I _die_ less than your other ones, at least."

Owlman merely grunts and shoves Kyle more painfully against the wall to tie on the blindfold.

*~*~*

"It was quarter in advance - twenty grand! The rest I get later. The merchandise they already took – they're long gone, I don't know who or where or why..."

Owlman's growl cuts through the hiss of the rain falling on the asphalted roof: "I wonder if a cat can still land on its feet when it's upside down with its legs tied together..."

"Oh my God no, please, please – AGHHHH!'

Owlman takes his foot off the cord and watches dispassionately as it whips and unspools, disappearing over the edge of the roof. He allows Kyle to plummet the length of three storeys before he finally lunges forward and catches the end of it to drag him back up.

The Jokester puts her hand on her hip and tilts her head to one side, admiring the flex of Owlman's biceps as he reels his captive in. _Heh – Kinda fun to watch the man work when **you're** not on the one about to become pavement pizza._

"I could do this all night, Kyle. You'd better hope I can, because if my arms get tired you become another big sticky mess for someone to hose off the street along with last night's garbage and accumulated filth..."

"Jokester, Jokester..." Catman yowls pitifully, "tell him to stop!"

"Yeah, right, because he listens to reason. Have you _met_ this guy?"

"How can you work for him? I thought you were one of us."

"'Goobble, gobble one of us'?" she repeats to herself. "You know, that's _funny_," she rolls the word around in her mouth, as if it's new to her "... because word on the street is you're the turncoat, Catman."

"Just because I stole something from your psycho boyfriend there?"

"Because you stole something deadly for persons unknown and for personal gain, kitty dearest. Such behaviour is frowned upon within the Gotham Scooby gang. Now, tell us who you swiped it for before Big Bird here splatters you on the sidewalk like a Jackson Pollock."

"I don't know, I really don't know. ARRRGH!"

"Who?"

"I don't, I don't... No please, wait!"

"Spit it out, Kyle."

"This is big, Owlman. Layers upon layers... I never get to talk to anyone who really knows anything, just errand-boys–"

"Where was the drop-off point?"

"Left luggage at Gotham Central. They gave me big old-fashioned trunk to pack it in. I had to stick the receipt ticket to the underside of a bench in the municipal park."

"That easy, huh? No-one asked any questions?"

"Questions? This is Gotham! Nobody asks questions if they know what's good for them. ARRRGH!" The scream gets further away as Catman does.

"Well, indulge me one last time," Owlman says as he pulls in the cord again. "Where are you supposed to be taking delivery of the rest of the money?"

"The E-Zee Nite Motel. Y'know, out beyond the Archie Goodwin Airport?"

Owlman nods in satisfaction and hauls Catman's bound, blindfolded and wiggling form over the ledge and back onto the roof, dragging him back into a sitting position to stare at his sweaty and ashen face. "When?"

"Tomorrow at noon. I'm supposed to wait in the parking lot."

"I suggest you don't... and just to make sure..." Owlman shoves Catman face-first over an acid rain-pocked stone gargoyle with the body of a crouching lion, passing the remnants of the electrical cord several times around the torsos of both to fasten them together. "I wouldn't bother screaming – no-one's gonna hear you down there on the street over the traffic. If your information checks out I'll have the clown call one of your little scumbag vigilante buddies to come and get you, should they be so inclined."

"No, it's true I swear, don't leave me here..."

"By the way," Owlman adds as he finishes off a complicated knot, "don't think this means I won't find you and kill you. I'm too busy right now to give you the long, drawn out death you deserve, but once I deal with this situation I will hunt you down, Kyle. Understand?"

The Jokester moves over to Catman's side. "Aww, don't look so worried, Sel. He's mad now, but by tomorrow the homicidal mania will probably have simmered down to a mere whimsical desire to break both your legs," she tells him, bending down to pat his head reassuringly. "Hey Owlsie–" she turns back around to find the rooftop otherwise empty. "Dammit, I hate it when he does that..."

As she walks away across the graveled surface of the flat roof she wraps her coat more securely around the nurse dress and sighs: "jerk owes me twenty bucks."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the protagonists model swimwear and receive a timely warning from someone from Owlman's mysterious past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this fic ever end, you ask? Well, I hope we'll have about two (or possibly three) more installments, at least one of which will finally include sexytiemz (sorry about the delay on that – I got strangely invested in my own cobbled-together plot.

Owlman climbs from the rooftop pool and grabs blindly for the towel hanging from the wall. As he pats his face dry and drapes the towel over his shoulder a piercing wolf-whistle rings out, reverberating off the tiled surfaces.

The Jokester is on one of the sun loungers, leaning on her elbows. She slumps back to give him the benefit of a slow clap. "Nice, very nice. Now, it's not every man that can do justice to a pair of speedos, especially in, uh, _grey_, but I've gotta say–"

"Shut up," he snaps. "How did you get in?"

He strides around one of the potted shrub arrangements and finally gets a good look at what she's wearing. He takes a moment to privately marvel at the lengths to which his nemesis will go simply to create an effect – not only can she hack his security, dodge his boobytraps and elude his cameras, she somehow was able to anticipate where in the building he would be and came prepared to strike a tableau. She's wearing a white sharkskin halterneck swimsuit and a pair of oversized harlequin sunglasses propped on her head; in her hand is a glass filled with ice and elaborate foliage – it's fifties noir again, but this time she's the dame.

"You know," she observes, ignoring his question, "your help is quite unhelpful. That little butler guy you've got running around – the one who's all 'indeeeeeeed, madam' and barely repressed feudal resentment – yeah, I had to tell him twice how to make a mojito." she stirs the concoction. "I said 'rum, lime juice, syrup, mint, NO ARSENIC,' but would he listen?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Now Owlsie," she puts down the glass on the table by her side and drapes her arm above her head; he notices that she has dyed her underarm stubble the same shade of purple as her hair – _and really_, he thinks, _what kind of crazy person..._ "You didn't think I was going to abandon our mission, did you? Come on big guy, it's you and me against the world! For great justice! United we stand, divided we fall..."

"I don't need your 'help'," he says, turning and making his way towards the shower area, stepping behind the curved frosted glass screen and stripping completely.

As he soaps up his acute hearing detects the sound of fabric rustling and a zipper being raised over the hiss of the water. She reappears, leaning nonchalantly on the edge of the screen, now wearing a pair of black slim-fit slacks over the swimsuit and tucking her violet hair under a curly blonde wig.

"So anyway..." she says, then pauses to look him up and down. He refuses to flinch or turn his back, just stands there while the soap washes away in swirling ribbons. "First of all, can I just say I totally get what Superwoman sees in you now. Once you get past the whole violent sociopathy quirk you're really quite easy on the eyes. Secondly, if you're going to turn up at a sleazy motel without attracting suspicion, you need a female accomplice." she unknots the silk scarf and drapes it over the wig, securing it under her chin in such a way as the scars on her cheeks are hidden, then places the sunglasses on her nose. "Ta da! International woman of mystery."

Owlman shuts off the water and grabs the fresh towel over the rail, wrapping it around his waist and turning to head towards the dressing room. "No."

"Oh, come on..." the Jokester complains, trotting after him in the white canvas espadrilles that apparently complete the look. "Hey wow," she throws herself down on the long suede-covered ottoman in the middle of the hexagonal room, craning her neck to look around, "that's a lotta mirrors... it's like being in a funhouse. I like it – you gotta give me the number of your interior designer. Anyway, the thing is Owlsie, I figure you're going to need me on this one. Call it intuition."

"What the fuck do you know about anything?" Owlman growls, closing the mirrored doors to his wardrobe.

"Know? Well I'm not good with uh, 'facts'," she makes air-quotes and then shrugs. "Human nature, that's more my angle, along with a few wild, unsubstantiated guesses."

"Hn," says Owlman, his lip curling in contempt as he throws off the towel and bends to pull on a pair of boxers.

"So here's what I figure – this weapon you so carelessly lost, it's something you didn't want anyone to know about. The question is, why?"

Owlman maintains his silence as he pulls on a pair of dark grey-blue jeans.

"Here's the guessing part. The weapon, it couldn't be for use in Gotham... you got that all under your thumb with good old fashioned guns and blades and greasy bank notes, right? Now, what's the only thing that's really a threat to you? – Ultraman."

"The big blue retard is not a threat to me–" he cuts in as he starts slipping on socks and shoes.

"Not right now. You have him all wrapped up in your scheeemes, I know," she crosses her disproportionately long legs at the ankles and wags a finger at him. "You have something on him. Something _so bad_ he turns a blind eye-beam to you banging his wife." She sighs reflectively and continues: "but I know you, Tweety-pie, and I know you could never be satisfied without there being a plan b – hell, probably a plan c and d as well! Hence your little weapons project – it's something designed to hurt him, am I right?"

He doesn't respond to the question directly, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth confirms the answer. "That all you've got?" he pulls a black short-sleeved t-shirt on which clings to the muscles much in the same way his lycra owlsuit does.

"Well, the big money question is, who took it? Big blue wouldn't bother to have it stolen; if he knew about it he'd just swoop down and yelling 'ULTRAMAAAAN SMAAAASH' with all his usual subtlety and finesse." she makes a twirling gesture with her wrist. "Superwoman... secrecy isn't exactly her style. If she had it, she'd be gloating over the city's big screen TVs by now. Power Ring and Johnny Quick? Geez, I just plain don't think they have the _imagination_, let alone the wherewithall..."

"So?"

"So I don't know. But... I think you do... or at least, you suspect. And whoever it is, they've got you spooked. Someone from your mysterious pre-crime lord past, perhaps?"

"Let's get this straight–" he snarls, jabbing a finger in her direction. "I'm not scared of anyone or anything, clown."

"Well, maybe you should be. 'Layers upon layers', Catman said. Whoever they are, they're good."

"I'm better," he retorts, pulling on a leather biker jacket.

"I guess we'll see. And you got me into this, so I plan on coming along for the ride. You can either accept that, or you can keep wasting your energy and resources trying – and, naturally, _failing_ – to shake me off."

As he glares at her she smiles broadly, still perching on the ottoman swinging her legs back and forth and looking like an undead Marilyn Monroe. He grunts and turns away, striding out of the room and along the edge of the pool towards the elevator. He hears the regular click-clack of her shoes and then the native twang of her perpetually too-loud voice:

"Sooo... that's really what your wearing? Okaaay... well, if you want to go out looking like an extra from West Side Story it's your funeral I guess... aha ha-ha, maybe literally..."

"Shut up," he growls, for what he suspects will not be the last time in this particular morning.

*~*~*

He slaps the Jokester's hand away from the car's radio buttons for the twentieth time, his eyes not leaving the road as they pull into the parking lot of the E Z Nite Motel.

"We're early," she points out, sighing and putting her feet up on the dash as the car comes to a stop.

Owlman opens the door and steps out, looking around himself in that shrewd, suspicious way of his before sticking his head back inside. "I'm going on recon. Stay here, clown."

The door slams and the Jokester growls "I'm going on recon!" in her Owlsie-impression voice as she scans the horizon, looking at the long, low motel building and watching Owlman pick his way up the rocky hill behind before disappearing into a dusty, scrubby clump of trees.

She shifts in the squeaky-leather seat and quickly tires of the stuffy, pine-scented interior, so she opens the door and steps outside, leaning back and pressing her hands to the sun-warmed metal of the door. Then she tilts her head to the side and frowns quizzically – in the distance she can make out a low, whirring sound. A helicopter... but not one of the noisy GCPD behemoths... doesn't sound like standard military either – black-ops or black market, she's thinking.

It appears over the horizon looking suitably sci-fi and impressive, dark silver and bullet-shaped beneath the blur of the propeller blades. When it's almost directly overhead a ladder appears, on it's bottom rungs clings the figure of a woman, her long, dark hair whipped about by the downdraft.

When she gets a few feet from the ground she hops nimbly down and the helicopter flies off over the hills. The woman walks towards where the Jokester is standing, sweeping her hair back over her shoulders where it falls silken and miraculously tangle-free. She wears a crisp, white shirt tucked into dark jodphurs and tan coloured knee-high boots. She looks like something a nineteenth-century writer would refer to as an 'adventuress'; the kind of broad who might run through the streets of Morocco disguised as a belly dancer, or go on a jag to Egypt to dig for ancient cursed artifacts and fight mummies.

"Hiiiii," says the Jokester, extending a hand. "I don't think we've met, they call me the–"

"Jokester, yes," the adventuress looks her up and down with a cool eye. "You're the clown, the one with the disguises and the clever gadgets. Where is Owlman?"

"Lurking, but he calls it 'recon'. You a friend of his?"

"Once I was."

"Seriously, he used to have friends? I take it this was before he got all pointy-eared and psycho..."

"We knew each other long ago," the adventuress says in rich, tantalizingly foreign tones – and seriously, whoever designed this character was really laying it on with the oriental femme fatale schtick. "Beneath the tropic of capricorn, when he had another name and was studying the martial arts under the tutelage of my father, he who is known in your tongue as the Grand Master of the Angel's Hand."

"Owlsie had training under a jedi master? How come he still sucks?"

It's a facetious question, but it gets a serious answer. "His strength and agility were always excellent, but he could not master his emotions or put away his anger. It seems it is not a skill the years have taught him – this is why you can exploit his weaknesses so effectively."

"You talk about him almost like he's a person."

"He was, once. A troubled man, but not entirely _consumed_, as he is now."

"So you and he..." the Jokester wags her finger back and forth in the international sign language for 'were an item'.

"We were lovers, yes. I was... we were both very young and he was charming."

"Charming? You sure we're talking about the same person?"

"He hasn't shown you that side of himself?" she smirks, very catlike and puts one hand on a shapely hip. "Then he hasn't made love to you yet."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa–" the Jokester holds up her hands. "Don't get the wrong idea, lady. Me and the big guy are strictly nemeses and this is a temporary collaboration undoubted to end in one or the other of us doing the old staberoo in the back–"

"Should you both survive."

"Yeah, so about that–"

"Talia," comes the familiar gruff voice as Owlman steps out of the manager's office, slipping the brass knuckles back into his jacket pocket and shutting the door on the pained whimpering sounds coming from within.

"Beloved."

"Is that a joke nickname?" the Jokester asks. "Like calling a snake 'Fingers' or a rabid pit-bull 'Cuddles'?"

"Quiet, clown," Owlman snaps, predictably. "Talia, why are you here?"

"I think you know the answer to that, dear detective. It is because even after all that has passed I still bear you... some affection."

Owlman breaks into a language the Jokester doesn't know but sounds to her untrained ears like arabic, talking in a low, emphatic tone.

"It's rude to exclude your associate from the discussion," Talia replies. "To answer your questions, yes, my father is scheming against you. He believes it is time to break your hold on Amerika, and he feels this is best achieved by destroying your citadel. He sees your beloved Gotham as a cancer on the face of the earth, a threat which must be destroyed to stop the... _sickness_ from spreading. He believes himself to be the surgeon..."

The Jokester breaks in with: "does it occur to your dear old dad that people live in Gotham – civilians, not all of them exactly innocent, but _civilians_, none the less–"

"My father is a utilitarian," Talia replies, looking cold and unconcerned. "He views things on a global scale, and he believes that the needs of the many outweigh those of the morally suspect few. Needless to say I do not share his vision, that is one of the reasons I have come to warn you." She turns her gaze on Owlman. "The other is that I still believe you have it within you to do great things, beloved. So I ask you, if you have any love for your city and its people – not just pity for yourself – to stop him." She takes a step away from them and produces a walkie-talkie from a clip on her belt, speaking into it in the not-English language again. More swiftly than seems possible the helicopter appears again, sweeping towards them and waiting almost directly above.

"How will it start?" asks Owlman. his hands planted on his hips as he stares at the ground.

"He has his eye on your safehouses, they will be first to go. He wants to take away all your resources; he is curious to see what you will do without all your weapons and gadgets."

"When?"

"Very soon!" Talia shouts over the regular whup-whup sound of the propellers as she runs lightly towards the descending ladder. As she grasps hold and puts her foot to the bottom rung she swivels her body and points to the Jokester, calling out: "this one – keep her close. My father knows the way you think, but _her_ mind he cannot predict. Perhaps more importantly, she will be there to stop you when you once again go too far."

 

*~*~*

Back in the car the Jokester puts her feet back up on the dash and glances over at Owlman, whose face is set in its stony 'I'm on a serious mission' expression.

She decides to break the observed silence with: "sooo... you have a thing for dominant women, huh?"

"What?" he snaps.

"Superwoman I was prepared to write off as a tactical maneuver, but having met this Talia... well, it's a definite pattern." He strikes out and she ducks not quite fast enough, receiving a glancing smack to the top of the cranium from the heel of his ungloved hand. She chuckles and says: "aww, Owlsie. Don't be embarrassed just because she told me that you made sweet emotional love to her on moon-drenched shores 'neath the tropic of capricorn..."

Owlman makes the low growling sound which indicates he is getting too annoyed even to bite out an insult.

"You know, she actually described you as 'charming'. I've gotta say, while I can't fault your taste – and kudos on hitting that, bro – the idea of you smiling and holding open doors is really, really creepy."

His hands clench on the wheel as they turn left onto the New Trigate Bridge. "I'm not going to tell you again – shut up."

"All these years you've been saying that, but has it ever actually work–"

There is an ominous rumbling, Owlman flattens the gas pedal with his foot and the car lurches into a burst of speed. As they pull up on the other side and roll out of their respective doors the bridge quivers in a way something made out of metal and masonry is not supposed to and gets lit up red for a moment before crumbling into the river

"Oh," she says, slumping against one of the front tyres. "A destructo-beam? Mounted on a satellite – seriously? What kind of cheesy retro supervillain comes up with that?"

"I did."

"Oh yeah."

Another rumble, further away this time. "That's the Kane Bridge," Owlman murmurs, she nods.

"There goes the Vincefinkel," she says, turning her head to the south-west as yet another blast hits. The ground itself begins to shake as the eerie beam penetrates the muddy depths along the river and three swirling vortexes appear.

"The tunnels," Owlman grunts from his position on the ground, lying propped up on his elbows, commando-style.

The Jokester opens her eyes as the tremors fade. "So, sea-worthy vessels aside, It would appear that we are stranded."

"No, if we get to the helipad on–"

Even as they raise their heads towards Gotham, the tallest building on the skyline disappears in a cloud of smoke and falling debris.

"–On top of the eyrie?" she finishes for him, then throws him a look of fake sympathy. "Oh, Owlsie, that's where you kept all your _nice things_, wasn't it?"

Owlman climbs to his feet and stares at the remnants of his domain. Five more beams descend to strike locations within the city limits, then all falls eerily still.

"What did those last ones hit?" she asks, gingerly opening one eye.

"I suspect... my weapons caches."

"He's good, this Mister Hand-of-the-Angel."

"... Yes," Owlman reluctantly admits.

The Jokester gets off the ground and dusts herself down. "So, I guess you're going to need me to put you up for a while."

"You have somewhere... suitable?" he looks at her dubiously.

She pulls off the scarf and wig, teasing out the flattened purple strands of her own hair. "Hey, you're not the only one who has specially equipped hidey-holes you know!" She slumps against the car and extends her hand to him over its roof. "So, what do you say, big guy – truce?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the cartography of Gotham I've used comes from [this map](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Gothammap.jpg) by Eliot Brown, drawn up for the 'No Man's Land' series in 1999. Gotham is basically an island, bounded on two sides by rivers and on the other by a large body of water, sometimes referred to as 'Lake Gotham', but more often as the Atlantic Ocean (making Gotham an East Coast city like New York). Hence, blow out the bridges and you have a city held to ransom.
> 
> I'm aware that this chapter fails the Bechdel test. Sorry Talia, I used you as an expository device.
> 
> 'Hand of the Angel' is, of course, E3 R'as. (R'as al Ghul = 'head of the demon'). The arabic version of the name shall be revealed in next chp.
> 
> **Next Time on _The Jokester and Owlman Show_**: The E3 Rogues call a meeting to address Gotham's sudden crazy ninja problem; Owlsie and Jokester have a domestic get domestic!


End file.
